


rose leaves (when the rose is dead)

by pearypie



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Adult Ciel Phantomhive, Angst, Demonic Contracts, Future Fic, Gen, Introspection, Maixent Phantomhive is Ciel and Lizzy's son, reflections on death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 14:04:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8670463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: 1899. How does a demon care for his master's son?





	

I have looked upon those brilliant creatures,

And now my heart is sore.

All’s changed since I, hearing at twilight,

The first time on this shore,

The bell-beat of their wings above my head,

Trod with a lighter tread.

— William Butler Yeats _The Wild Swans at Coole_

 

* * *

 

“Young master I must insist—you’ll catch your death otherwise.” He warns, briefly glancing out the window. The morning light is still weak but his young master has woken early today. “Young master—“ 

“If I put on my coat and hat and gloves and scarf, will you let me go outside? Just for a few minutes—before mother wakes up? I want to play in the snow.” Maixent Phantomhive, irrepressible with emotion at the tender age of five, gazes at the butler with clear sapphire eyes though his hair is the purest shade of autumn gold. “I promise I’ll waddle outside very carefully—just like the fuzzy animals in the picture books.” 

“Penguins, young master. They’re called penguins.” Sebastian reminds him, gently placing his hand on the little lord’s back, leading him towards the great doors. A cobalt overcoat and scarf is draped over his right arm. “And only for a few minutes. Then it’s time for your lessons.”

Maixent is not quite pleased with that statement.

“May I give a counteroffer?” He tries, wide-eyed and insolent, and Sebastian chuckles at the child’s vigilance. He had long since decided that his master’s only son would make a fine barrister or politician, preferably one that was delightfully unscrupulous and audacious to boot.

“No such compromise can be reached, I’m afraid.” The raven-haired servant replies as they reach the grand entranceway of Phantomhive Manor. “You are the master’s only child and soon, you shall inherit his lands, his fortune, and his responsibilities.” Holding out the cobalt overcoat, Maixent slips his arms into the garment before Sebastian kneels forward, an act so second-nature he has learned to ignore the intimacy it conveys. “The monarch of England will one day call you Earl Phantomhive but such a title is not lightly given. You must possess the knowledge, the ability, and the desire to uphold the Phantomhive name—a task your forbearers have carried with solemn dignity.”

He speaks fluently, eloquently, though he knows the child will not comprehend his words fully. Maixent Phantomhive, like the current Earl Phantomhive, detested the simple phrases of childhood (“father says it’s juvenile”) and took such great pride in his fast growing vocabulary that Sebastian could not help but indulge the boy.

Taking one small pale hand—with callouses already developing on his palm and fingers—Sebastian fastens on his black leather gloves before uncoiling a cashmere scarf of sable and cobalt. They are eye level now, butler and scion, and Maixent seems somewhat distressed, eyes dull and lips pursed.

Sebastian continues to dress him with methodical care. The motions are familiar—a cradle-horse memory. 

“That’s horrid.” Maixent declares suddenly. “That’s horrid and—don’t you ever say that to me again!” 

“Young master Phantomhive.” Sebastian’s voice is sharp and clear and he hides very well the surprise he feels at having witnessed such a display. The young master was rambunctious, yes, but never volatile; he had never been prone to fits or tempers (though he was susceptible to periods of lethargic excess) and the noblewomen of London adored him as a beautiful, witty little boy of cheer and amiability. “You must never raise your voice so early in the morning.”

His master is awake but the countess still sleeps.

Maixent, somewhat humbled, shrinks from Sebastian’s touch but there is still a trace of defiance on his lovely young face.

He bites his lip. “Do you suppose I woke mother?”

 _No._ “You shall if another outburst is heard.”

“But mother isn’t yet awake?”

“Not yet, young master.”

Maixent relaxes, visibly relieved though his eyes are still too bright. “Good. I don’t wish to wake mother but what you said was…was wretched.” He decides, choosing that word with careful accuracy and determined resolve.

Sebastian is somewhat puzzled. He had spoken truthfully but with censored diligence, ensuring that the child would understand the importance of studying through the simple stated facts of inheritance. There had been nothing blatantly cruel or blasphemous about his explanation—in fact, the butler noted with a touch of exasperation, his suppression of verbal malice around the boy was shocking compared to the conversations he engaged in with the child’s father.

He could be considered almost saintly.

“Young master—“

“Father will have to die for me to become the earl, won’t he?”

Sebastian blinks, perplexed. “That…is the way of life, my lord.” He answers gradually, realizing the child’s hurt but confused all the more.

After all, death was the only surety in life. Why such sorrow?

“Father won’t die." Maixent decides almost desperately. "Mother will be too sad.”

“The countess is strong of heart, young master, you must remember that.” He states facts and gives no comfort. A feeling of complete disconnect washes over him.

Ciel had been baptized in winter fire and now clutched at the hand of death with desperate agony. He would die soon, there was nothing so astonishing about that.

The child ought to know better. 

He had witnessed death. He had watched his marquess grandfather, Alexis Leon Midford, lowered into the dark, vacuous earth at the age of three. He had endured the funerals of his stillborn cousins—Angelica and Ethel Victoria—and every evening his beloved father returned home smelling of death and decay and the child hugged him still, leaping into the earl’s arms with a smile so bright that his master seemed bewildered by it all. 

Joy.

Happiness.

It was a strange, curious image—like observing a painting that had been painted too long ago.

Why then, should he despair at his father’s own eminent death?

The butler watches, vermilion eyes gleaming, as Maixent’s lower lip trembles; as the boy takes a deep, unneeded breath; as a dewdrop rolls down his plump, rosy cheek.

A smile appears on Sebastian’s lips.

“Ah, young master.” He takes a handkerchief from his breast coat pocket and brings it to Maixent’s face. “You needn’t despair over such things. One must learn to accommodate and grow or else life would be halted by man’s desire for momentary contentment.” He places one white-gloved hand on the child’s shoulder. "Now then,” his smile is too diamond-like to be genuine but the child is young and does not notice the sharp-edged sadism in the butler’s movements, “let us go outside.” 

 

* * *

 

“You made my son cry.” It is a brutal, unforgiving statement given without blemish or pause. Sebastian only stands there, an expression of bemused complacency on his astonishingly beautiful features. 

Offhandedly, he notices his master’s study has been stained amber by the setting sun, giving shadow to every object in the room. 

“Never,” Ciel interrupts, “do that again.” It is a threat, pure and simple. 

“Of course.” He offers a slight bow. “My apologies.”

Ciel walks behind his grand rosewood desk, gait elegant and posture seamless. His hands are clasped behind his back; his rose-cream skin unmarred—behold, then, a Victorian Adonis, one dressed in shades of blue.

“What did you say.”

“The young master prefers physical exertion to his studies. I merely reminded him of the latter’s importance.” Sebastian's answer is immediate, his senses hyper-aware of everything around him. 

Ciel’s porcelain jaw clenches and he looks so much older than his 24 years. “No. You told him I would die.”

“It was implied, yes.” He confirms, blithe and irresponsibly honest. 

A bitter smile appears on his master’s mouth—the same one he’s worn the past twelve years. “I know you care only for my soul. I know you _can’t_ care about a single thing except that black hunger raging inside of you—but as your master, as the bearer of this seal,” he yanks the black silk eyepatch off and the violent pentagram illuminates, “I _command_  that you care for my son.” 

“Is that so?” Sebastian can’t help the viciousness in his smile—the sharp, incongruent cut of his canines as he lifts his head, red meeting sapphire. 

“Are you questioning my orders?” 

“I am ponderous of the wisdom but you know your power well. I shall obey and serve so long as you bear my mark.” A stitch of candor can be heard in his usually derisive voice but it is only there because Sebastian wills it. “But I must ask,” he continues, a burst of grotesque delight bubbling beneath the surface of his granite calm, “shall I care for him as I have cared for you?”

“What do you—“

“Shall I bring him one step closer towards hell?”

Ciel’s eyes flash. “Careful demon—you only have one soul at your disposal. _One._ ”  

“It is the only one I want.” 

“And it is the only soul you shall receive.” He confirms, taking a step back and sinking into the primeval shadows.

The glowing pentagon tints his expression violet. 

“I am not so much enamored with you as I was before.” The earl has grown colder and it is the demon’s handiwork.

Sebastian waits for the shiver of pleasure, of charcoal desire at having corrupted this former youth, of having ruined him so completely. He waits but like winter’s wind, he too has been frozen.

“I shall tread softly, my lord.” 

“Don’t.” It is a single word, solitary and plain, but Sebastian knows what he means to say. _Not with me. Have no pretense._ “There are enough vulgarians in this world. I don’t need another.” And, with an expression of pained reluctance, Ciel exhales and looks directly at Sebastian. “I need you still.” 

Sebastian bows. “I am ever yours.” 

A wry smile decorates Ciel’s lips. “Until I fall.”

“Even then I shall be yours to command.” _Your fall will be glorious—the poetry of the stars, grander than Napoleon’s empire and more permanent than Caesar’s legacy._ His chest thrums as cool heat washes over him; a hummingbird has fallen into his heart’s cavity, the reverberations propelling him forward. 

Before his lord and master he kneels, as he has done a thousand and one times. “You will never tarnish, my lord, nor fade, nor die.” He tilts his head up, silken strands of raven hair brushing past his cheekbones. Ciel gazes down at him and the demon is seized by a fit of possessive grandeur. He takes the earl’s hand, feeling the silk of his flesh and the glass of his bones.

“You shall be made _eternal._ ” He vows, breathing life into a promise fashioned from dusk and nameless desire. 

The earl’s half-smile is mocking but his eyes are pained, lavished with tenuous emotion.

He has grown tired of living.

**Author's Note:**

> \- Just some quick number crunching: in this AU, Ciel and Elizabeth married when he was 17 and she 18 in the year 1893 since Ciel’s a December baby. (He would’ve been 17 in 1892 but their wedding would’ve taken place a little later.) Maixent was born immediately after—a honeymoon baby—in the year 1894. (If Ciel and Lizzy married in the spring, Maixent would’ve been born in February.) As such, this fic takes place in the winter of 1899 where Ciel is 24 years old, having recently celebrated his birthday. And yes, Queen Victoria is still on the throne (she passes away in 1901). 
> 
> \- Maixent is a variation of the French name Maxence, meaning 'greatest'. 
> 
> \- Title comes from Percy Bysshe Shelley’s poem ‘Music When Soft Voices Die’.
> 
> A/N: Feedback welcomed :)


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